Trains
by gaffer42
Summary: Watson and a recovering Holmes find the case that almost killed the consulting detective is still following them. No ship but friendship. Multi chapter.
1. Chapter 1

_Set post Hiatus._

_Notes for the reader – I write hurt/comfort, it's what I do. The challenge is always to keep the voices as true as possible while telling a story I want to read. For this tale, I was hearing Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke, for the most part. Two small items - ginger beer is a very strong but non-alcoholic drink with natural carbonation. French was taught to most Victorian gentlemen._

Chapter 1

I settled my black bag in the corner and turned to assist my friend through the compartment door. He, in turn, was reluctant; he had been chatting with the porter about the other passengers on our lightly-traveled train since we had stepped down from the trap. We'd gone slowly, Holmes summarily dismissing my suggestion of a wheeled chair, and now I could tell he was wearying rapidly.

I glanced behind Holmes' back at the younger man, whose dusky face was animated. When I caught his eye and tipped my head toward my friend, though, he understood with impressive speed and broke off his conversation.

"We should be getting you settled, Mr. Holmes," he said amiably. "I'll stop by with the latest gen once we're on our way, shall I?"

It was the work of moments to have my friend seated, feet up on the other seat (he firmly refused to have his bed made up early, I had fought and lost that argument already) and well wrapped. I tried to tip the porter but he raised a hand in denial, aimed a smile of dazzling brightness in his dark face at my friend, and left us.

"You've made another friend," I teased him gently. "I shall be concerned for my standing."

"Since you have made me somewhat known with your scribbles you should be blaming yourself," he retorted. "Still, he's quite a sensible young man with a good eye for detail."

"Another fan," I mock sighed.

"I do have a certain cachet, now." His ego was bolstered by the young man's obvious admiration and I had to own I was pleased. This trip was already beginning to bring him out of the depression that so often accompanies recovery from a severe injury.

"Cachet?"

"Je ne sais quoi?" he replied innocently.

"Allez-tu parler francais tout le voyage?"

He smiled, one of the first easy smiles I had seen from that hollowed face. "Not if you don't want to, old chap."

I returned the grin, and busied myself hanging our coats and hats, and arranging our various items of ease for our trip. There was a table near the window that could be folded – I lifted it and placed our reading materials within easy reach. There was a small washstand secured in one corner, it held a basin, soap, jug with fresh water, and several clean towels.

I had requested Mrs. Hudson prepare several packets of sandwiches, which I put near the papers, and finally, our immediate area prepared to my satisfaction, I sat and watched the activity in the station as the train made ready to leave.

Holmes was already dozing in the corner, and I noted his respirations professionally.  
They were moderately deep and regular, no longer tentative and shallow as they had been for so long. He was indeed recovering nicely.

oOoOo

I crouched behind the pews, trying desperately to locate Holmes. Each time I chanced peering over, an all too familiar sound - a bullet's whine - kept me behind the reassuring thickness of English oak. Carefully, I made my way down the aisle, half crouching, until I saw an outflung foot, a scrap of coat just visible. The attacker was moving from cover to cover in the sacristy, and I had no interest in exchanging shot for shot randomly - I needed to get to Holmes, bring him to some modicum of safety and determine his injuries, as surely as I needed to draw the next breath.

I worked my way across between the pews toward that sight like a child amusing itself during a tedious sermon. I had kept count, and knew that the shooter had one, perhaps two more bullets - just shy of breaking into the open of the main aisle I beckoned him to use it by 'accidentally' presenting myself as a target. He fired, chipping the back of the pew, sending splinters showering. Then I peered around the edge, gun ready, and presented another small target.

The shape of the sacristy brought a tiny 'click' echoing to my ears, and I moved out from cover, dropping to one knee beside my friend. He was curled towards me, and though his eyes were half-open he did not seem to see me. I kept my ears forward and took a moment to examine the wound while still trying to plan our escape - the space between pews would not serve for retreat. And then my fingers found the warmth of blood - more than I had expected - and in his upper abdomen…I swore soundlessly. The villain had shot Holmes in the stomach.

I looked up from my examination and glanced behind me - would that St. Jude's had been a small country church! The main aisle stretched away in both directions, and looked as long as the Thames was broad. I should have held Holmes back when we arrived, I should have made him wait for Lestrade, only a moment or two behind us, but when he was hot on the trail it was like attempting holding back a train.

Then I felt a sinister regard and looked back towards the altar. Julius Dabney stood in the soft, religious light of the stained glass windows, re-loaded gun at the ready. I had no knowledge of how he had come so close without sound. Then I looked at his feet briefly, and saw the reason. He had been a sailor, after all, in one his many criminal enterprises. Rope soled shoes were nothing exotic to him.

Under my hand, I felt Holmes shake off the daze, he gasped and jerked, and bit back a cry. I leaned forward and grasped his shoulder to turn him carefully flat, hoping Dabney had not seen I was armed, hoping I could conceal the weapon between Holmes and I and find some moment to use it; but Dabney interrupted, or perhaps divined, my plan.

"Lay down your gun, Doctor, and stand up."

I looked down at Holmes, who nodded slightly, and I felt a curious tickle at my left knee. Without looking down, I realized he had slid his own gun up, shielded by his wounded body, to be accessible.

I leaned over Holmes' torso and placed my revolver down carefully with my right hand, and then made a show of getting to my feet with a grunt of effort that concealed the susurrus noise of my retrieving Holmes' gun. Standing, I kept my left side slightly turned by stepping over my friend with my right leg, nudging my own gun across the marble with my foot in hopes that the sound would distract him. It did not, so fixated was he on the man currently gasping his life out on the cold stone floor.

"We'll just wait a tic, shall we?" Dabney said, sounding for an instant like a carriage driver delayed by a bit of traffic. "It won't be long. I've no interest in you, just him. Come on, step over. You're obstructing the view."

He did gesture with his gun but it didn't waver far enough for me to take advantage. We needed a better distraction than that. I shook my head and stayed where I was, knowing that it was a false sense of protection - for my dearest friend was already dying. Dabney did not repeat the command.

"You appear to have an irrational hatred for him," I said flatly, trying to contain my anger and fear.

Dabney shrugged. "He's made a fool of me on no less than four occasions. When one is the leader of a group such as mine, once respect is gone, your life might as well be over. Killing the scourge of the criminal world, being the person who rid us of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I will have my power again."

From the corner of my eye I saw Lestrade moving slowly down the side of the pews, lost in shadow, dressed in black. Mourning clothes, my mind supplied humorlessly, but I took a deep breath and kept my gaze on the madman before me.

"You won't make it out, Dabney. Let me tend to Holmes and I'll arrange safe passage – I can do that." I wasn't certain that I could, but I was desperate, what little I'd seen of the wound was not encouraging.

"You remind me of my brother, Doctor – loyal. Loyal to a fault, like a faithful dog, and pitifully unaware of what it takes to grab power and hold it." He looked down at Holmes again, a satisfied smile spreading over his face.

It took all my strength not to drop back to my knees as I heard my friend whimpering in pain; felt his arm move against my ankle, hand scrabbling at the floor, and come upon my trouser leg and grip there, helpless against the throb and burning of the bullet within him; but I began to be as focused as I had been in Afghanistan. Deliberately, I strove to ignore everything but the threat and my one possibility of action.

It all depended on Lestrade and his powers of observation and deduction, which – though not of Holmes' standards – were still above those of the average Yarder, possibly because of his long association with my friend. I saw the slight movement stop and calculated it was just about the point that Lestrade might have reasonably been expected to see that I was, in fact, armed.

It would happen soon, I knew, and I felt my body tense, there was no sound in my ears, I no longer heard my friend's cries, there was only me and my enemy, and the time stretched out between us.

Then there was a sharp crack, a bang, as a pew was tipped forward to fall with a clatter on the heavy stones.

I saw Dabney dart his eyes to the sound for just a second, a fraction of a second, and it was all I needed to bring my weapon up from behind me, turn slightly, fire.

I aimed for his heart.

I knew nothing less would stop him; alive, he would be a constant threat, and I shot him in the heart with my left hand, blessing my old instructors for their thoroughness, "who knows if you'll be shot in your good hand, maggot, what if you only have the one hand left, what then?" they said, and I knew my shot was true for Dabney dropped down like a sack, like Holmes had…

I held my stance for a second, then realized I hadn't breathed properly in several moments. There was shouting and then Lestrade was there, taking my – Holmes's gun, and I said nothing to his urgent questions but turned to my friend again, dropping down and calling for help and a doctor's bag.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for the reviews! The Reverend who appears briefly in this tale will appear in a later one I'm drafting, he's actually modelled after my brother who has a two church charge and does a lot of charitable work. Apologies to anyone who's a train nut if I get some details wrong in this or future chapters._

Chapter 2

I became aware of someone tapping the toe of my boot under the table.

Gradually, I focused, seeing no longer the multi-hued play of the saints' windows on the deep red blood of my friend, but now the shafts of green-gold flashing off the trees and though the train window. We were almost out of London and the early afternoon sunlight reminded me we hadn't eaten since morning.

"No dwelling on the past, old son," Holmes advised kindly, grey eyes sharp on me, and I realized my thoughts must not have been hard to follow.

"Or if you must, remember that it is because of you that I am still walking the earth and Dabney is not. For which," he concluded, stretching a bit – but carefully, still favouring his healing side " I am most uncommonly grateful. And I find I am quite hungry. Let us investigate these sandwiches. Do you suppose there's an opportunity to obtaining a decent cup of tea?"

"Consider our circumstances, Holmes," I returned. "There's not a chance, not from the railway. The water would be tepid, the leaves would be sweepings. I should have thought to pack a vacuum flask. It will be Adam's Ale for us."

"Water? Perish the thought," he said, "Ginger beer it is then." He nodded at my doctor's bag, which, when opened, disgorged two brown bottles. I raised my eyebrow at that, as I did not recollect purchasing them, never mind packing them, but it was another example that Holmes was coming back to himself.

The ensuing picnic reminded me of one such pleasant time with my brother as we had, in my boyhood; on a train to the seaside, eating sandwiches and drinking ginger beer and discussing our plans. It was an easy meal. Refuse collected and disposed of, certain other functions attended to, we each of us settled in with our reading of choice and prepared to see the trip away.

oOoOo

Afterward, I remembered spots, patches of the next few hours. I was once again the army doctor treating a badly wounded man, my motions were almost automatic and my decisions came sharp and fast.

The amount of blood indicated a serious wound, possibly involving a nicked artery – there was no fountaining so it was not bisected, I had a few moments for preparation, though there was no question of moving him to hospital - there was no time for it. I had my small kit with me, but I would require more.

I have some confused memory of issuing orders, of Lestrade's astonished face when I summarily dragooned him to assist me. I recalled the young parish priest clearing his large desk, papers flying everywhere, and lighting every lamp in the place, then the surgery, in "better facilities than many I've operated in, Lestrade," I'd said with assurance, the man was no use to me panicked. As a hardened police officer he was not, at least, faint – he served admirably, retrieving the boiled instruments as I demanded them.

My patient had long since swooned from blood loss and pain – he was my patient, now, just another lad got in the way of a bullet's path…for so it had to be, and I blessed my battle-trained responses for I could not have operated so on Holmes, my friend.

The bullet had indeed nicked the artery and I stitched it, made such other repairs as I deemed essential and withdrew, filling the wound with sulfa, stitching it and laying a thick pad of clean gauze over it, wrapping it firmly. It wasn't till I finished and sat, suddenly and with a bump, that I saw again my friend, face sallow and cold, and I pulled myself up.

"Lestrade, we need transportation," I felt for Holmes' pulse, finding it thready.

"Will do. To the hospital?"

"No, back to Baker Street. I can't chance a secondary infection, he's lost too much blood, he'll be too weak to fight it off." I looked up, into Lestrade's honest policeman's face, the concern writ large. "He'll have a better chance at home, Inspector. I'll need more supplies, but…"

"Whatever you need, Doctor," he interrupted. "I've sent for a Maria - it's smoother than many cabs."

In less time than I thought it would require, assisted ably and even eagerly by several burly policemen, Holmes was back in his own bed.

As I knew it would be, sleep was in short supply for us during the first few days of his recovery. Though he did not acquire an infection, the blood loss made him terribly weak and he was seldom fully conscious. His dreams were full of terrors, and the laudanum did not help – would that I could have used morphine but his recreational use of his own drug of choice and subsequent tolerance of the opioids meant that a dose sufficient to kill the pain would depress his breathing beyond hope.

I spent many hours by his side, spelled for small duration by Mrs. Hudson or the younger doctor who had covered my practise for me upon occasion, Dr. Wilmer. When I slept, I slept lightly, with my hand on his, trusting my doctors' instinct to sense a change in pulse or temperature that could mean a crisis. More than once I woke with my hand in a crushing grip as a spasm of pain would grip my friend and leave him shaking and drained.

I dreamed as well. I had nightmares, rather – I wasn't fast enough, I was shot as well, I missed Dabney and he shot Holmes dead as he lay…those dreams I woke from in a sweat. I did not regret shooting the man. He would have killed us. But the taking of another's life was always a matter of gravity.

Slowly, though; as I knew would happen and as I had told Holmes often, speaking in his ear to quiet his fears; he grew stronger. The pain was still present but diminished, and the day he woke, regarded me lucidly and asked the time of me I almost cheered.


	3. Chapter 3

_I tried to write a tale that highlighted both the gent's abilities - Holmes gets his chance soon! _

Chapter 3

I found the paper had slipped from my hands, and the rustle of it hitting the floor brought me back to myself.

Trains are outside the rhythm of normal life, I mused. When on a long train trip, one is apart from the world, and the regular interruptions do not exist. There are few distractions on a train to keep one from retreating into memories that are brought forward simply because there is no press of life to keep them back. It crossed my mind that perhaps this was a fainter version of what Holmes experienced between cases - with nothing to actively occupy his mind, he had to find other ways to engage it or, perforce, slip into memory. Fortunately, no cases could reasonably come to this compartment door, and with luck, no callers with a medical emergency. We would remain in a pocket of time, responsible to no master but our own thoughts.

Likewise, there was no possibility of certain Yarders dropping in for a cup of tea and a need for Holmes' guidance, thinly disguised as a chat.

OoOoO

That last had rankled – Gregson had the effrontery to practically demand Holmes' presence one afternoon after one of the – thankfully fewer - trying nights only twelve days after he had been shot, and it was at that point I had decreed a two week rest in the North, knowing the landscape there would suit as a seaside cottage wouldn't. I had marshalled my arguments thoroughly, and was quite prepared to pull rank as his attending physician if friendship did not weight the decision; but Holmes had merely looked up from his lap desk, from the monograph he was penning, and agreed.

"You are looking somewhat peaked," he added offhandedly. "You really should take better care of yourself."

I brindled for a second – in whose cause had I been labouring these last days? – but he was grinning slightly to himself, casting small glances at me as I worked through the gibe – my own thoughts were somewhat slower these days. But the friendly humour was both an irritant and a relief – it was the first time since his wounding that I had seen a glimpse of the sharp wit return. It was a small thing but of mighty comfort.

"Seriously, old chap, you do not need to dance attendance on me. I'm much improved, as your colleague indicated, and more to the point you said so yourself. But I know how thinly you've spread yourself, Watson. Lestrade has been more than usually amiable –" it was true, when the Inspector paid his visits I often took the opportunity to withdraw and tend to the smaller items of life, content that Holmes was with someone trustworthy. "…and he has finally told me what happened in the church after I became…no longer interested in the proceedings."

His voice had an odd catch in it and I crossed to him swiftly. He had lain back against the pillows carefully, and now reached to move the lap desk. I stayed his hands and removed it to a corner of the bed, pushing papers aside and avoiding upsetting the inkpot, then turned to him again.

"He is – almost - in awe of you, Watson, will he show it or no. He described the surgery, and your mastery of the situation. Frankly, I believe you have superseded me in his regard!"

I smiled at the slightly wondering, slightly petulant tone in his voice. I had, entirely by accident, heard the conversation Holmes had mentioned, during one of Lestrade's visits I had work to do in the study and the door was left open, by accident or design I never knew and never asked.

Their voices had not been terribly quiet, and I had heard my friend ask after "any interesting cases down by the Yard, Inspector?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade had responded with a chuckle, "I've strict instructions from the Doctor that my visits are only allowed if I don't talk shop – at least not yet."

My friend muttered something, and then lit on an alternative. "If you won't provide intellectual stimulation, will you at least satisfy curiosity?"

"If I can," the Inspector's tone was wary.

"What, exactly, occurred that evening? Watson is proving adept at dodging the subject and I own I am most curious, having been otherwise occupied for much of it."

Lestrade let out a startled laugh. "Otherwise occupied! Well, I suppose that's one way of saying it."

I heard the chair creak as he settled himself more comfortably. "I marshalled the troops in response to your message, and we made immediately for St. Jude's," he started. "When we got there, we heard a gunshot – it must have been the one that injured you – Gregson was for simply storming the church, but I squashed that idea. If I've learned nothing else from you, Mr. Holmes, it's that information is all."

"Very admirable," Holmes granted. "Please, go on."

"I took three men and we made a quiet entry. We split up to cover the aisles and moved into the nave, and they had strict instructions to assess the situation but not to take action that would cause further threat to either of you. I don't mind telling you…"his voice trailed off, belying his words. "I saw you shot, and the Doctor standing over you like some angry lion defending a downed pack member, I was frightened for the outcome. I didn't see how I could get a good angle on Dabney without alerting the rotter, and he was ready to pull the trigger on a breath…" he paused. "Still, I didn't see the whole lay of the land so I kept going, keeping to the shadows, and I saw the Doctor had a gun in his wrong hand, concealed in the folds of the coat."

"Ah. I thought I'd managed to give him mine unobserved."

"Indeed – sharp thinking. I thought it was a slim chance, most aren't good with the off hand, but I tipped a pew for a distraction. The sound alarmed Dabney and the Doctor took the shot – and what a shot, Holmes, pure poetry, straight and true. I have never before seen its' like, and in those circumstances."

"Those circumstances are not as foreign to the Doctor as all that."

"I know, but I sometimes forgot somehow - you know he doesn't present himself with that attitude - that he was in the Army. Not likely to forget again, though. He turned his whole attention to you as I made certain Dabney was no longer a threat, and then told me that the wound was serious and demanded immediate attention. His idea of immediate was impressing the Reverend Warren and I into service, clearing the Reverend's desk and setting me to boiling up his instruments. I had no idea he carried a small kit on him."

"In his inner pocket, yes. A complete small surgical kit with catgut and scalpels. He carried it in Afghanistan as a habit that he never broke."

"A most fortunate habit," Lestrade agreed. "The Reverend he set to boiling up the tools and finding clean bandaging, while I became his assistant. How he did it…" there was a pause in the tale, and I realized Lestrade was briefly overcome.

The man had performed admirably, under unaccustomed circumstances – had I ever thanked him for helping to save my dear friend's life? I could not recall.

"He worked with astonishing speed and focus," the Inspector carried on, covering for his lapse with a sip of tea, as the clink of the cup to the saucer told me. "The Reverend returned, they kept a small dispensary in the church, for their charitable work – there was sulfa to be had, and sheeting and gauze for bandages. Once the Doctor had finished, he issued orders that brought you here, instead of to hospital, he was concerned about infection."

"Very wise," Holmes commented quietly. "Fortunately, due to his exceptional abilities and commitment to cleanliness, I did not need to endure even an initial infection."

"If I ever need it, he'd be my surgeon of choice," Lestrade agreed. There was a brief, slightly awkward pause.

"Thank you for telling me, Inspector." Holmes said finally. "I was quite curious. I rather wish I had been in a position to observe Watson in his element!"

"I'd just as soon not consider that his element if you don't mind, sir. And I would think he wouldn't either." His voice was quiet.

"Of course, I was simply thinking aloud. As you know, Watson tends to hide his light under a bushel! Now, you're certain you can't tell me anything of the London criminal?"

"If you're serious about needing something to think about, I have a very old case that I am working in my off times. I can tell you something of that, but I ask one favour – if you solve it before me, don't tell me? And don't tell the Doctor I gave you the detail."

"If I solve it before you," there was a smile in my friend's voice, but to his credit he was completely serious, "I shall parcel out the occasional hint, if I see you truly going utterly in the wrong direction. As to the other, my lips are sealed."

"Fair enough." Lestrade drew a breath, then started on a tale that would have seemed absurd, but for the fact we had dealt with far stranger in the past. For me, I simply kept working, putting the finishing touches on a tale that was sadly overdue at the publishing house.

And when Lestrade did leave, I made certain to thank him properly for his efforts. He actually coloured slightly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

There was a polite tap at the compartment door and I stood, welcoming - as I had previously lauded the absence of - the interruption. It was the dark young man who had assisted us, and he entered, introducing himself.

"Jackson, sir," he said, as I admitted him. "I thought you gentlemen would appreciate a cup of tea."

He was carrying a tray with three well-used, mismatched mugs on it, and a Brown Betty sat steaming in the middle of it. He saw me examine it and cast his eyes down.

"I'm sorry, sir, I know it was presumptuous…"

The young fellow thought I was irate at the fact of three mugs; he had evidently pulled his courage together and implicitly invited himself to remain and have a chat. It was not an unwelcome idea, and his initiative impressed me.

"Not a problem, lad!" I assured him, and then turned to my bag. "I just noted the absence of biscuits."

"Well, what we had – it's not really good enough for gentlemen as yourself…" he trailed off and out of my eye I saw Holmes wave him to a seat. He deposited the tray on the small table and started preparing the cups as I rooted in the depths for a moment and emerged, victorious, with a packet of digestives.

"Capital." Holmes straightened carefully, pulling at the blanket. His slippers peeped out the end and I absently tugged it down to cover them as I passed. I opened the packet and extracted two biscuits for myself, then handed the rest to Jackson.

"Don't put them in front of Holmes," I directed, settling in my own seat next to Jackson. "He'll eat the lot if you don't watch him."

It was evident the lad was nervous, a bit surprised at his own audacity in inviting himself to tea with the famous detective and his biographer, but the bustle of getting the pot poured, and "one lump, please", and the decimation of the biscuit packet eased his nerves quite handily.

"I'd read of your injury, sir," Jackson said, placing the cup after taking a careful sip. It was quite hot and I let mine be for a bit, leaning back and dividing my attention between the two. I had worked with and fought beside men of Jackson's colour before, from dealing with their injuries, I knew that we were all exactly the same under that outer covering. Jackson had impressed me so far as an intelligent young man. His initiative was obvious as well.

The conversation had gotten by me, yet again, and it was the mention of my name that brought me back to the compartment. This furlough was most obviously needed, as my attention span currently was no longer than that of the average pigeon.

"…Dr. Watson was an Army surgeon, as you may know, and managed to patch me up quite nicely. The episode was wearing on him, though," his eyes twinkled as he glanced over "and so I suggested a holiday."

I merely snorted, shaking my head slightly. Ownership of such a splendid idea could be happily shared.

"Not the best time to see that part of the world, sir, summer's much nicer," Jackson said frankly. "Still, autumn has its' charms, I grant. Have you a room?"

"A small cottage, rather. Not far from town." I supplied.

"I do not find myself at ease in crowds," Holmes added, reaching for another biscuit. "Indeed, strangers are often an irritant to me, unless they bring a case. Or excellent tea…" he added swiftly, noting Jackson's faintly crestfallen look.

"I may be able to bring you both, if Dr. Watson does not object." They both looked at me, and I sighed. The man attracted cases like a flower attracted bees. Any moment now, I half expected to see Lestrade come through the compartment door.

"We're on a train," I said a mite sourly, "which limits your ability to disregard my recommendations and go haring off on an investigation. Proceed."

Jackson was silent for a moment, organizing his thoughts, and then started.

"During the boarding, I assist the luggage captain with the transfer of bags and placing items of delicacy so there is less chance of them being damaged. One bag was given to me with instructions to be very careful of it. It was quite light for its size. I placed it – with care, I might add – on the counter to be certain it was not dropped, nor anything dropped upon it, and the man who gave it to me turned absolutely white, then scolded me roundly for not being careful enough with it. I asked if there was anything in it that could prove to be a hazard to the train, and he shook his head – but I remained unconvinced. Still, it had a ticket on it that indicated he had paid for special handling, and those tickets are to be sold only when the luggage captain has thoroughly reviewed the item. That's as may be. I can't say how carefully it's examined, but once that ticket is on…"

He shrugged, and Holmes nodded, understanding.

"When money changes hands for special consideration, it can give rise to abuse of the system. A porter would have no say in the matter," he stated, and Jackson nodded.

"I hoped to get an opportunity to open it but the luggage captain took charge of it and I saw it later in a locker in the secured section – the lock-up. I noticed there was a small damp spot left where the bag had rested. As I watched someone dropped a small crate on the damp spot and it – well – jumped."

"The box jumped? Did it have anything live in it?" I asked.

"Nothing live. It just jumped a few inches and came to rest. When I lifted it, there was a small dark spot on the bottom, almost like charring."

I felt my blood run cold. I met Holmes' gaze and could see his thinking mirrored my own. An explosive. A liquid explosive that was detonated by pressure was on the train. To what end?

"Can you describe this gentleman?"

"About six foot tall, dark hair and eyes, and he spoke with an accent. I believe it was American."

"And do you recall the name?"

Jackson frowned, closing his eyes. "It was on the ticket, I can almost see it," he said slowly, remembering. "Dar…Das…Dabney. Marcus Dabney."

OoOoO

"Marcus Dabney, of the Americas," Lestrade said, placing a sheet on the desk. Holmes had recently been allowed the liberty of the sitting room, if he did not abuse the privilege, and he picked the note up to study it as the Inspector continued.

"The gentleman claimed his brother's body and indicated he would be having it buried here. Surprisingly, he asked nothing else of the circumstances surrounding his demise. He did not ask to speak to the investigator, nor to the police surgeon. If I had not chanced to be in the morgue on an unrelated matter, we would never have exchanged words."

"Everything has been in the papers in lurid detail, I would not expect him to require further information." I said, but Holmes shook his head.

"That was over two weeks ago," he disagreed. "He must have received the wire and left almost immediately to arrive here in that short period of time. Perhaps he visited the library before coming to call for the body, Lestrade." He tapped the letter with a long finger, thoughtfully. "That would seem a peculiarly rational decision during a time I would have thought he would be very emotional."

"True. I received the impression that they had not been close, nor was he aware of his brother's criminal past. He had made arrangements with one of the local funeral parlours. I waited with him as the carriage was brought round, but I had little feeling of grief from him. More of weariness, and of a distasteful task not yet complete. I have no knowledge of what happened after that."

"What did you discuss?" I asked.

"The weather, his voyage. He waxed quite enthusiastic about his business in America, in New York. He bragged of their vision, of removing old buildings for new. Old buildings," he snorted. "He should know better."

Holmes had sat back, pensively. "What was his business?"

"He was in demolition."


	5. Chapter 5

_Yes, two in a day. :) It's interesting writing something where you're restricted to a train and one of your main characters is pretty much "hors de combat"._

Chapter 5

"Demolition…" I said slowly. Holmes looked up sharply.

"Exactly, Watson. Jackson, I believe that the bag contains something of extreme hazard to the train. The fact that he brought it aboard shows that the man has no compunctions. It also shows a singlemindedness of purpose I did not anticipate from him."

"But what is his aim?" Jackson asked in confusion.

"There would be only one reason…" Holmes started, regarding me with some concern.

"Revenge. I believe he would want me dead," I said slowly. "You made earlier reference to Holmes' wounding - the man I killed was Julius Dabney."

Jackson blinked. "That was his brother, then - he followed you on the train?"

Holmes nodded, but he was frowning. "It would appear to be the logical answer," he said, "though it does seem odd. Those who are bent on revenge are often more – personal in their attack. Still, we must take action."

"It is a bomb, then." To his credit, Jackson sounded merely concerned, with little fear. "There is a bomb in the luggage compartment."

"Yes, lad, it's a bomb," Holmes said crisply. "And we know of it, and therefore the danger is already halved. We must find and render it harmless, and then find and render Mr. Marcus Dabney harmless."

Jackson took a breath. "I know where the bag is, and can access the keys."

"Excellent," I said. "If you provide a description of it, I will go to the luggage car and remove it, and if possible I shall dispose of the explosive then and there. We are currently running through uninhabited land - the door should prove adequate."

"I'll come with you, sir," Jackson said firmly. "I will know Mr. Dabney if I see him, and can be of help if it comes to a tussle."

I demurred, but Holmes nodded. "Jackson, I would be deeply in your debt if you would do so," he said. "I am of no use as it stands, and this would best be a two person job. It may be that we are too cautious, we have no proof that he knows exactly where we are, but it would not take much effort to ascertain our location if he wishes," he shrugged, "this train is not that large. Speed may well be of the essence. Once he confirms the Doctor's location, he may do something even more ill-advised."

"It's settled, then," Jackson said. "I'll need to stop by the porter's compartment and retrieve my keys, then we can find the bag and see what is what."

"And, Watson, if I might make a suggestion…"

"My revolver. Indeed."

Jackson went on ahead and I followed him out the door a discreet moment behind, stick in hand, hearing Holmes locking up behind us. We made our way, Jackson staying a short while before me, through our car and the diner, then Jackson entered the service car that separated the front carriages from the two cars without sleeping compartments. This car contained a kitchen, smaller rooms and the porter's compartment, near the back. The passengers seemed uninterested in our passage, and I sat for a moment in the dining area near the exit to the service car, evidently perusing a newspaper, until I confirmed no particular person noted me, then stood and casually entered.

Jackson brought me back and then opened a door. "Welcome to my office," he said, smiling, and I entered. Another gentlemen of like complexion looked up from darning a sock, and a second peered from behind a curtain where he had, evidently, been changing clothes.

"Jackson told you his tale, I see," the first, older man said with a soft drawl. "He's a good one for telling the tale…"

"In this case, Mr…." I let my voice trail.

"Harry," he introduced himself, and gestured to the man behind the curtain. "Stan."

"Ah. In this case, Harry, he was absolutely correct, not to mention the fact Mr. Holmes found his observations quite keen."

Jackson smiled, a touch embarrassed, and Harry glanced at him with a glint of respect.

"So that was really Mister Holmes, an' that means…"

"John Watson, at your service."

"John. Pleased to meetcha." I shook hands round the compartment, noting the materials for brushing and cleaning hats, coats and shoes, the curtained bunks for the longer trips, and the tea kit to one side - currently denuded of mugs. A set of tiny flags drooped over the door, evidently a method to summon one or other of them to a car. It was warm and slightly disheveled in a way that reminded me of our sitting room at Baker Street.

"We're going to the luggage car, Harry," Jackson started, " and we need to know if anyone follows. Keep your eyes out…"

"Hang on!" Stan had moved out from the alcove behind the curtain and was now leaning on the wall near the door. He held up his hand. "Car door just closed."

I looked enquiringly at Jackson, who was alarmed. "We might have been followed," he said, "or it might just be a passenger wanting something from his luggage."

"No other way out of here?"

"None. Hide!"

Hiding spaces were limited, but I had begun to formulate my plan already. I seized a bun from the tea tray, the shoe polish material and a pair of shoes from the floor, and dove behind the curtain. Once behind, I shrugged into the porter's jacket I had hoped to find there; otherwise shirtsleeves would have had to suffice; and blessed the fact the window was grubby - only fitful light came through. I tore the bread and stuffed it into my cheeks, making my features rounder. I clapped the hat on my head, then started industriously shining the shoes I had retrieved.

The door opened.

"Yes, sir?" Jackson said promptly. "Ah, sir, I remember you. Your bag was stowed most carefully, I can assure you…" so it was the man in question, and I was again impressed with Jackson's quick thinking.

"I'm looking for someone, I thought I saw him come this way. A military man of medium height and build, he carries a cane…I saw him on the platform and I've been watching for him. He's an old...friend."

I swore to myself and glanced at the floor - absently, I had laid the cane down and the tip protruded clearly past the curtain. I saw a shape move to shield the edge of the drape, and a dark hand flapped once - one of the porters had seen and was providing the opportunity to correct my mistake. Carefully I pulled it back and laid it snug against the baseboard - from a few feet distance in bad light, I hoped it would remain unseen.

"No one here but us, sir," Jackson replied "you can look round if you like." He was placing a great deal of trust in my abilities. I shined harder, hoping the trust was justified. I wished for the comforting weight of my revolver, but it was in my case in the luggage car, and was the one item I felt I should retrieve at the earliest convenience.

"Thank you." The man took Jackson at his word! I bent down further and rubbed away at the shoe. I heard his step, moving around, checking the bunks, growing closer…

I felt, rather than saw, the curtain flipped back and I grumbled in my throat, pitching my voice far lower than normal and blurring my usual diction. "Stu, I told you. I finish when I finish." I glanced up nonchalantly, had a fleeting impression of a square face very similar to his brothers', and then looked down again. "Stu, passengers' lost again."

"Not lost, Dan, looking for someone." Stu said calmly.

"Well, they're not here. I got these shoes to do, and three more sets, dang light's dodgy…" I trailed off into muttered grumbles and the man - Dabney, for it was he, I could tell - let the curtain fall back.

He went back to the door. "There's a fiver in it if you find him and tell me. Only me. I'm in compartment four."

"Military man with a cane, we'll watch for him, sir." Jackson was agreeability itself. The door closed behind him and there was silence for a moment, then he appeared at the curtain. He stared a second, then burst out laughing, gesturing me to the mirror.

The bread wedges had plumped my cheeks out rather like a chipmunk, my lips were thinned because of it, and the hat sat low on my forehead. I was unrecognizable. Homes himself would have been proud.

"The man, was it…"

"The brother of the man who almost killed Holmes, yes. The resemblance is clear." I tongued out the wedges that had so changed my appearence, and removed the jacket and hat. As I was straightening my coat, I looked to my new allies.

"Mr. Holmes is on his own. He's in no way fully recovered; he'd be unable to properly defend himself. I had no idea Dabney was so close on our tail. At least we know he is looking for me and not Holmes, but I cannot leave my friend unguarded while we deal with the explosive. I must ask a favour, one for which I would be deeply in your debt..."

Jackson held up a hand, forestalling my question.

"Harry, you and Stu go, watch after Mr. Holmes, tell him we sent you."

Readily, they agreed, and I nodded at them. "Thank you, gentlemen, it would ease my mind considerably."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

We made our way swiftly through the train. Even the third class car was almost empty, only a few older people dozing in their seats. The luggage car was behind the last passenger car, and we gained entrance quickly.

It was surprisingly full. I was briefly puzzled until I realized that not only the mail, but also such independent delivery services as had items to move north, would have bought up the remaining space. The lockroom, which bore a close resemblance to a cell, stood at the far end, and two large, sliding double doors provided access to the car for luggage, one set on each side. The luggage itself was piled and then tied down with netting, minimizing the potential for movement.

"It went into the lockup," Jackson said, and made for it. I poked around briefly in the luggage, seeing my bag but unable to access it due to the securing ropes. Jackson, in the meanwhile, was engaged in moving other trunks from the door of the lockroom to gain the door. I abandoned my attempt to remove my bag; knowing how deeply the revolver was buried within it I would need to have full access, which would require Jackson to remove the netting. I moved on to assist the young man.

It took perhaps ten minutes of moving items to clear a spot for the door to swing. We had left an aisle for access to the door by unspoken consent, and Jackson had assured me we would be shortly able to withdraw my bag and provide me with my weapon – the lack of which I sorely felt. Though we presumed the surviving Dabney had only targeted me, my near-loss of Holmes was still very fresh in my mind, and our defence was my first priority.

The small cloth bag had barely shifted, and I lifted it carefully down, opening it. Within, a small vial rested in wrappings of wool. It was slightly damp and smelt faintly of chemicals, and I noted the cap had not been properly secured. I almost instinctively reached to tighten it, then recalled that it had taken only the pressure of a case being placed on a spot of the material to set it off. I withdrew my hand before touching it and closed the bag again. How to dispose of it? Jackson would know how to open the door, perhaps simply throwing it would suffice? Would it explode on impact or should I thin it with water and pour it out? I turned the thought in my mind as I went to Jackson, who had turned his attention to the net that restrained the stack with my bag.

"Doctor Watson. Move another step and I will shoot your friends."

The voice came from the door, and I froze.

Jackson had been crouched behind the baggage pile, and he dropped to his haunches at my fleeting glance, as I moved my gaze to the doorway. Dabney stood there, gripping the young man Stu by the arm, a revolver pointed at his head. Holmes was in front of him, having evidently been made to co-operate by the threat to the young man. He met my eyes, fury within them, and I could sympathize.

"Dabney," I made my voice level. "What of the other man?"

"I hit him. I think he's still alive. I don't really care about him, or your friend hiding behind the boxes. I think he should stand up, very slowly."

I shrugged and nodded slightly, and Jackson rose. Dabney half-stepped aside and pushed Stu forward, lifting his gun in response to Holmes' swift turn, stopping his attempt to disarm their captor.

Stu moved towards Jackson. "Both of you, into the cell and lock yourself in." Dabney directed.

"Doctor?" Jackson asked.

"Go ahead, Jackson. Do as he says." I eyed Holmes, who was standing, swaying. It was not beyond him to over-play the weakness, to give his captor a false sense of security, but I knew his reserves of energy were sorely depleted.

We stood in tableau until the two men were locked in.

"Now, Doctor, give me the bag."

I moved forward, but he waved his gun again. "Slowly, slowly! Place it there very gently." He gestured to a spot a few feet from Holmes.

I complied, putting the bag down with care and stepping back. At Dabney's direction, Holmes lifted it and turned to hand it over – he lunged at Dabney's gun arm. The bag he looped over his wrist, and it swayed and swung – I dove for Dabney as well, but he had shrugged Holmes' attack off, grasped the handle of the bag and pulled hard, wrenching it off Holmes' arm and pushing him back into me. We tumbled down in confusion.

"Get up! Get up!" Dabney's voice was rising in agitation and we sorted ourselves out. I stood, extending a hand for Holmes.

"Nice try, old chap," I said quietly as I helped him right himself.

"Sorry, old man," he said at the same time, and we grinned slightly at each other, even in these dire circumstances.

Together, we stood facing Dabney.

"And now what?" my friend asked with some asperity. "Shoot us both? Blow up the train?"

Dabney frowned slightly. "That wasn't my plan at all, Mr. Holmes. I was going to plant the vial in the good Doctor's luggage, and would have done if you hadn't boarded earlier than I anticipated. I believed the resulting explosion would be contained within a room. If it killed you as well, so much the better, but the Doctor was my chief target." He essayed a smile, attempting to appear at ease.

We simply waited, saying nothing. He grew tired of our silence, and gestured at Holmes.

"Over there. Behind the luggage."

Slowly, using the trunks and bags to assist himself, Holmes complied.

Once he was there, Marcus Dabney indicated me. "Over to the door. Open one side."

I found that deeply disquieting, but when I seemed to pause, the gun swung to cover Holmes, and the implication was clear. I moved as directed and pushed the door open. It slid on its' tracks, banging against the stop. We were running fast, but the noise was less than I'd expected.

"Jump, Doctor Watson." he commanded me then.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It wasn't an altogether unexpected demand. "I beg your pardon?" I asked politely.

"Jump, and maybe I'll spare your friend." He was deadly serious, and I stared at Holmes. He met my gaze quickly, but his face was still, his expression almost distracted, and I knew that he was thinking furiously, aligning bits of information into the whole that could turn the tide. That itself told me he still needed time, though, and I had to find a way to provide it.

"I know you won't spare him, Marcus," I said reasonably. "No more than you'd spare these young men in the lockroom. I know how your brother thought, you see. It didn't matter who was in the way, if he desired to he would simply sweep them aside, murder them."

"No!" he replied firmly. "No, I don't believe you. He fell in with bad influences as a youth, he was no murderer, not at heart."

"You don't believe me? What part of my statement was unbelievable?" We could not attack this man physically, but I could keep Dabney from acting, keep him talking. I had absolute faith in Holmes' ability to discern the mans' weakness. "Do you not believe me when I say I know you'll kill everyone in this room as easily as your brother killed his enemies, as easily as swatting a fly? Or do you not believe me when I tell you that your brother was a criminal with no conscience?"

He frowned when I described Julius as a killer and a criminal. It was not something he wished to hear, but neither was it something he disbelieved. And if I had made that connection, I knew my friend had. He still did not speak, though, and so it was still my conversation for now.

"I…" he hesitated, vacillating, but he still gestured. "Jump, Doctor, you might live."

"You knew he was a gang leader at a young age, don't you? He made a living from thievery and deceit..." I continued, but he shook his head, as if the truth were a fly he would simply dislodge.

"He was my brother, he was no crook. You killed him and I have to make certain you pay. You need to jump. Jump!" The commanding note was gone, and the tone approached…pleading? He heard it in himself, though, and it angered him – bolstered by that he stepped forward slightly and raised the bag.

"Jump or I drop this!"

The new threat seemed to slip the last piece of the puzzle into place. Holmes' face cleared, he coughed once, like a lecturer beginning a class, voice pitched to overpower the low rumble of the wheels and the wind in the open doorway, and his commanding tone drew all attention.

"You were orphaned when you were fifteen and your brother was twelve," he began. "You were apprenticed out and he got a decent place in a great house, possibly…a boot boy? He visited you at your lodgings when he could, but you could see the disdain in his eyes - no matter what your efforts on his behalf, they were never enough."

Marcus's gaze shifted, watching alternately me, and Holmes, who was seated on a steamer trunk, hands clasped loosely before him.

"He never had appreciation for the gifts you gave," he continued, "the time you spent working for the honest wage you earned, and you had a falling out…I would say three years later? He left his position and dove into the London underground, where his innate intelligence and ability to manipulate saw him the head of his first gang by the age of eighteen."

I looked at Marcus. His expression was astonished, perturbed. His weapon was still aimed at me, though, and the bag still swung threateningly.

"You grew steadily more uncomfortable with such visits as he deigned to bestow," he was almost musing aloud, "his manner and attributes were at odds with your own, and he still looked down on you. You decided to move to the Americas, and have a new start. He corresponded with you occasionally, but you found the new world to your liking and slowly your connection was severed."

"How do you know these things? How dare you say these things?" Marcus gritted the words in puzzlement.

Holmes continued serenely, as if we were not in mortal peril. "Your younger life was spent trying to find favour with a young man with psychopathic tendencies. Sensibly, you decided to leave well enough alone when you moved out of the country. For some reason, though, when you heard of his death it brought out the guilt you felt at what path the lad took. Guilt is insidious, Marcus. It can skew perception, and that - along with the years you spent persuading yourself you had failed him - made you take ship and return here. To bring yourself peace with your..." and his voice sharpened slightly, "sadly distorted memory of your brother, you purpose to deprive me of mine. To prove yourself strong, you will kill a man who was acting in defense of self and other."

Marcus still held steady in the face of the onslaught of words, but his face was a study in perplexity.

"But one of the most interesting - and telling - points, the one that grants insight into your most curious plans of revenge, is the way you plotted to murder Dr. Watson." He crossed his arms, thoughtfully. "Your initial plan was to place the vial in his bag and wait for the natural bumps and jars of travel to detonate it, even though you had no guarantee that it would do so in his possession, and might in fact have gone off in the luggage car. It might have derailed the train. Your second plan was - what? Did you even have a second plan? Are you not simply now acting on the spur of the moment? You have him presently at gunpoint, but you encourage him to jump, instead of simply pulling the trigger. Most curious indeed."

He sat on his trunk, seemingly at ease. His intellect formulated the arguments as he spoke - if the truth was a weapon, Holmes was expert in wielding it.

"It puzzled me, I must admit, until I realized that murder is not really your forte, Marcus. You desire to remain too detached, as if any death that results is not from your actions but is Watson's own fault. It is not revenge you wish to take, so much as you desire the right to say to yourself that you avenged your brother."

He was staring at Marcus, and the man looked back at him, fear plain in his face now.

"You spent your young life trying to appease him, didn't you? And he was never appreciative of your effort. You moved to America to escape him. You return to take your old burden up, to avenge the death of a man who would never have considered doing likewise, as if this ultimate act will prove your worth to one dead who in no way considered you worthy. You will kill a man whose nobility cannot be questioned, to revenge the death of a thief and murderer whose only hold on you was by blood, never by affection."

The scorn was thick in his voice, now, and Dabney's gaze ranged anywhere but the face of the man telling him the hard truth.

"Watson will not jump," Holmes stated flatly. "He will not provide your odd sense of justice fulfillment. If you want him dead, you will have to serve him as he served Julius, and fire that weapon. But you do know it will not be the same, don't you?"

His tone was reflective, a bit sad, and his gaze met mine. "It won't be the same at all. Not at all, because your brother is not presently lying on the floor before you, gasping and crying with pain as his life drains, you are not being held at gunpoint and forbidden to help, unable to ease him." I closed my eyes briefly, heart aching at the memory, hearing Holmes finish soberly, "No, it will not be the same at all."

The words were sinking in, and now Marcus simply looked lost, confused. The gun wavered. His eyes flickered between Holmes and I, and I spoke, finally.

"Julius had shot Holmes, Marcus. He did it with deliberation, in his stomach, and his full intent was that we would simply wait the interminable amount of time a stomach wound takes to kill. It was his last chance to seize power again, to have stature with the London criminals, to gain the respect he once had. Even in his agony, Holmes had managed to give me his gun and I took advantage of a distraction, and I shot Julius Dabney dead to save one I love as a brother."

I had chosen the last few words with deliberation, knowing it was that particular bond Dabney felt responsible to, and now I let the silence build for a moment.

"You know to what measures a brother can be driven, perhaps as no one else could," I said, concealing my concern that I was by no means certain this confused man had the empathy to see my position. Holmes seemed to believe he did, though, and I trusted his judgement.

"I am sorry I killed him," I finished gently, "but I truly had no choice."

Marcus flinched, oddly, and I felt it was not at what I had said but perhaps a memory of a cold and bullying younger brother whom he had loved. He stared long at Holmes, and turned his regard to me for another long moment, before he lowered his gun. Holmes stood and rounded the baggage, and together we closed the distance between us, and the dazed and defeated man.

"You're wrong about me. I knew, inside, that he was a bad'un, even as a lad…" he said softly as I retrieved the gun, and Holmes the bag. "I just didn't want to believe it. I am sorry, I am sorry…" and he sat suddenly, head in hands, as if the enormity of what he had planned finally dawned on him.

Holmes handed me the bag and went towards the lockroom, intending to liberate the young men, but the door swung open as he approached and he stopped with a smile, watching as Jackson pulled a small strip of fabric from the catch.

"I didn't know what to do, sir," he said. "We could have been out at any time but he was very agitated, I thought it best to let you handle it. If he'd moved on the Doctor or yourself, though…"

"I see – very good, Jackson. Most ingenious."

Jackson smiled at the compliment, and then moved on to stand by me.

"What of Mr. Dabney, Doctor?"

I looked at the broken man crumpled on the floor, and at the cold and hard lockroom. Dabney sobbed aloud, face buried in his hands, and I sighed. "Can the compartments be locked from outside?"


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

I wrote swiftly, signed the note and handed it to Jackson.

"And this is to go to Inspector Lestrade." he said.

"Exactly," Holmes replied. "We shall wire from the station. If you could see that the door to compartment four remains locked, and Dabney within, we would be grateful. Lestrade will see that he goes only to the docks to take ship for America, or to gaol."

He was again reclined on the seat, propped carefully in the most comfortable position we could obtain. His adventures had drained his small store of energy, but he was otherwise unharmed, and there were items that required attention.

"You don't believe his change of attitude?" Jackson asked.

"I do, in fact. But the stakes are too high, Jackson," I saw Holmes make a small gesture that seemed directed at me "and I do not take unnecessary chances"

"One more question, if I might, sir…how…"

"Did I know their history?" Holmes interrupted the young man and I didn't bother containing my smile. It was a question he had been clearly hoping to be asked.

"Of course, I took some interest in the man who had attempted to kill me, and made inquiries through Lestrade of their early life. The bare facts of their orphaning were on record, but as for the rest, it was apparent in his bearing. No matter what a man says, Jackson, it is what he does and how he does it that is the window to his soul. He was not easy in his mind about killing another, and that reticence provided a wedge that proved most useful. He was making every effort to ensure Watsons' death, but he did not want to be directly responsible for it." He settled back a bit, basking for a moment in the respect of the young man.

"Remarkable, sir." Jackson said admiringly. He tucked the note away, and stood. "Gentlemen, it is now suppertime. I'll see about having food brought to Dabney, and Stu will remain outside his compartment, we'll spell him off as needed. Thank you for smoothing the way with the conductor."

"Supper," I mused, "would be a very good idea…"

"I'll tend to that for you both as well, Doctor. I'll return in twenty minutes." He touched his forelock, and turned.

"Jackson?" Holmes' voice stopped him.

"Sir?"

"Bring three plates."

He looked at me.

"It's his way of asking you to join us for the meal, young man." I interpreted.

He smiled broadly and left.

I stood and slipped off my coat, then retreated to the small washstand to clean up for the meal.

"I must admit, Watson, to being somewhat put out with you." The tone was teasing, but the words were earnest, and I looked over, towelling my face.

"Oh? For what, pray?" I dumped the water I had used into the bucket and wiped the bowl, hanging the damp towel to dry. I took a dry one over my arm, and then put the jug into the basin.

"You insisted on destroying that most intriguing explosive," he complained, as I brought the soap, towel and water to him.

"It simply was too unstable to keep, Holmes," I pointed out mildly, putting the basin and soap down.

"I suppose it was," he conceded, as I tipped a small stream of water from the heavy jug for him to wash in. "It would have been fascinating, though, to analyse it. Think of it…"and his voice was muffled for a moment as he scrubbed his face free of the dust of the luggage car. "Dabney had only days in which to make his plans. He had a hotel room, or perhaps a flat, to work in." He splashed water on his face and rinsed his hands, and I handed him the towel.

"He had limited means, limited supplies, limited time and limited equipment, and he still managed to concoct a most powerful explosive." He finished with the towel and I retrieved it, dabbing at some damp spots on my waistcoat placed through some over eager splashing. "Sorry, old man," he grinned and I could not but smile back.

"You could always ask him," I pointed out, returning the items to the washroom and cleaning the basin again.

"I think not."

It was said consideringly. I gave up on my waistcoat and took it off, shaking it out and hanging it as well.

"And why not? I was under the impression all was forgiven." I couldn't keep a slight acidity from my tone.

"My dear chap, whatever gave you that idea?" His gaze followed me as I sat, leaning back and stretching my game leg.

"It seemed that way, when we saw him to his room. He certainly apologized enough for two men."

"The man is thrice a fool. I do not willingly speak to fools, and certainly not once I no longer am required to."

"Thrice a fool," I said thoughtfully. "Let us number the foolish."

"Not standing up to his brother many years ago." One finger went up. "Continuing to curry favour with him when afforded the opportunity to sever all connections." A second joined it. "Threatening you." Three fingers, and a dark look aimed over my shoulder at Compartment Four.

"One can choose one's friends, Holmes, but one has little choice in family. "

"Upon occasion, Watson, one is lucky enough to find both in one." His expression had cleared again, and he quirked a smile at me.

I nodded in agreement, returned the smile and leaned my head back, closing my eyes and relaxing again. And this time, no memories rose to haunt me.

_I wrote most of this tale whilst commuting on a - yes - train. Netbooks are the best invention in the world! _

_Thank you all for joining me on this wonderful trip. Please watch your step when disembarking, and stand well back of the yellow line, as high speed trains may pass at any time in any direction._


End file.
